


Blacked Out

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bars and Pubs, Castiel is a Little Shit, Implied Switching, M/M, Pansexual Dean Winchester, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos, anti-soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: It's May 18th.It's 2018.It's a few minutes to 9 PM.At precisely 9, according to his soulmate tattoo, Dean will meet his soulmate.





	Blacked Out

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. I had really bad insomnia. So I started this thing instead of any of the other stories I was supposed to be working on.
> 
> Sorry, not sorry?

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

The date on Dean's arm had been getting clearer for weeks.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

It'd been more than a year since he’d noticed faint gray forming at his wrist, the earliest sign that his date was coalescing, that  _ finally  _ his time was coming.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

"Don't let it define your life," his mom had always said. "Don't sit around and wait for love to find you. Go out and live."

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

The impact of her words was lessened by the fond looks she gave Dean's dad, by the matching tattooed wreaths that adorned their wrists, encircling their identical dates. They'd gotten the wreaths to celebrate their twentieth anniversary, when Dean was 14.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

Dean didn't want much from life, didn’t want much from a soulmate.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

He only wanted what his parents had, what every loving pair of soulmates he'd ever known had.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

In order to be truly happy, he needed a soulmate. Then, he wouldn't feel broken, wouldn't feel alone, wouldn't feel...

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

...wouldn't feel like  _ Dean. _

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

Dean was ready to be remade,  _ craved _ being remade.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

Not that his life was so bad; he had good friends, a loving family...but everyone he knew was already paired off, and his struggled with depression and loneliness, and had a lifetime of promises that “he’d understand when…” and he was  _ ready _ , had been ready, yet his time never came.

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

With a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders back, ran an anxious hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, looked at his watch - 8:21 PM, 39 minutes until his time - and walked into his favorite bar, Heaven. He could have spent the evening anywhere in the world, traveled to an exotic locale with the expectation that his soulmate would, miraculously, be there as well. But he didn’t  _ want  _ exotic. He wanted what he already had...but better. Anyone hanging out at Heaven on a Friday night was his kind of dude or dudette, someone he could see himself in a “forever” kind of deal with.

No matter how unreasonable he sometimes thought his dreams, how undeserving he thought himself when he was in a depressive slump, he really,  _ truly _ didn’t expect much from his soulmate. His heart was there for the taking by anyone with a low to moderate IQ, decent looks, and no BO. 

The evening was foreordained, anyway. No one understood the process - it was either magic or Sufficiently Advanced Technology, and fuck, what if his soulmate didn’t know that reference? God, what  _ would  _ they have in common? - but inevitably, whatever tethered him and his soulmate together would ensure that he and they were in the right place at the right time to meet each other.

Heaven.

May 18th.

2018.

At 9 PM.

Though it was early for the typical Friday night crowd, Heaven was full of people, hot and sultry despite the AC struggling to compensate. Men and women talked, ate, danced, drank, and roamed about jostling each other. Several wore glowing wrist bands to indicate that May 18th was their soulmate date, exuberantly flitting about the crowd like so many blue fireflies, finding each other, comparing tattoos, then moving on in rowdy good natured disappointment to the next potential soulmate.

There was a basket of wrist bands on the bar.

Dean could swear he heard the  _ tick-tock  _ of a clock, that his heart beat in time to it, that his blood thrummed accompaniment to the loud bass and the endless seconds that separated him from 9 pm.

He ordered a Heineken and took a wrist band.

"OMG CONGRATULATIONS!" shrieked a young woman beside him.

"And he's  _ hot. _ "

"What time, what time?"

"Mine’s at 10:33!"

"7:22, but they have to be here somewhere! I don’t know how we coulda missed each other!"

"Mine’s not ‘til next week!"

"Four months late and ready to rock!"

"Tell us, tell us!"

Overwhelmed, Dean stared at the floor rather than face the swarm of people. He didn't want to look into each set of eyes, take in each person’s features, get his hopes up, then find out they weren’t his match.

"9 PM," he said.

Disappointed groans surrounded him and the press of strangers faded into the background hubbub of the crowd as quickly as they'd materialized to envelope him.

"Vultures," grumbled a man sitting hunch-shouldered at the bar nearby.

"Yet here you are," Dean countered.

"If you think any of those people are the answer to your woes, you're delusional." The man straightened, took a long drink from his cup, and slumped forward once more.

"Aren't you just the shiniest ray of sunshine in the playground," said Dean, rolling his eyes. The man turned his head, blinked at Dean, said nothing, blinked at Dean, said nothing, blinked at Dean, said nothing. Self-consciousness made Dean scowl. "Okay, not my best line," he finally mumbled.

The man smiled.

Okay, dude was an asshole, but he was hot when he offered that toothy grin. His dark hair fell artfully disheveled over his forehead and ears, his cheek bones grew more prominent the wider his lips spread, and even the casual gesture of holding his pint glass showed his arms a muscular match to his broad shoulders.

But he wasn't wearing a wrist band.

So he wasn't the one Dean was at Heaven for.

"Heineken." The bartender thunked a frothy glass onto the bar. Dean dug a ten dollar bill from his pocket, handed it over, and took his drink. The glowing wrist band gleamed eerily off the tan beer.

Dude was  _ still _  grinning at Dean.

"Well, uh, good luck or something," Dean offered, his attention returning to the milling masses before him.

"You're gonna need it," replied the man solemnly.

Dean had no idea what that meant and couldn't be bothered to care.

He had a soulmate to find.

By definition he wouldn't -  _ couldn’t  _ \- find "the one" until 9, but that didn't stop him and the others wrist band wearers from looking. To a hard rock beat, they milled about, dancing and dodging amongst those just there to have a fun Friday night. Their glowing wrist bands named them, and they sought each other out, drawn like moths to flames. Sometimes they shared their times, shouting to be heard over the music. Sometimes they held up fingers. Sometimes they pressed arm to arm, looking for a match.

But of course Dean didn't find one.

Because it wasn’t 9 PM.

Until...

His phone vibrated in his pocket, a mute alarm he'd set for his time. He jerked his head up, looked around...

...and there she was. The crowd on the dance floor parted like the damn Red Sea before Moses, opening a path that revealed the unknown woman who would come to mean so much to him. An adorable red-head with a round face, in a cute outfit, wrist band aglow, looked around with breathless anticipation.

Their eyes met.

Dean's heart pounded, his feet carrying him forward. He ignored the people jostling him, ignored the noise, ignored every obstruction. His time had come. He'd found his soulmate.

She stared at him wide-eyed as he approached, excitement dimming.

"Hey! I'm Dean."

"Charlie," she offered. "I thought you'd be..."

"What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Never mind. It's a pleasure to meet you."

She didn't sound like it was a pleasure.

She sounded...disappointed.

But whatever.

They were soulmates.

Everything would work out great.

* * *

 

“I'm sorry, Dean. This isn't working.”

Well, at least Charlie didn’t sound disappointed any longer.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was devastated, horrified, sad, abandoned,  _ beyond  _ disappointed, more upset than he could imagine…

…no. That was how he  _ thought  _ he should feel.

He actually felt…

Relieved.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlie continued in a rush. “You’re a really awesome guy, you are, but you deserve better than this sham. You gotta see that, right? You...”

She continued, babbling in her anxiety, and Dean let her words wash over him. He appreciated her need to express herself, but he couldn’t consider her feelings until he sorted through his own. Another deep breath in, another slow sigh out, and a tension he’d carried in his chest eased for the first time since they’d met and Charlie’s face had fallen. Another deep breath in, another slow sigh out, and even the vague twinges of pain that suggested he  _ should  _ be miserable faded.

“…are you going to say anything? Anything at all?” she concluded desperately. “I never wanted to hurt you, Dean, but—”

“You haven’t hurt me,” he said.

Charlie’s jaw fell open and she blinked.

“I’m fine.” Fuck, he even sound like he  _ meant  _ it. He...he  _ did  _ mean it. “I’m totally, completely fine.” Three months had made it amply clear that, tattoos aside, he and Charlie weren’t meant to be anything other than best friends. “I’m awesome.” He’d never heard of platonic soulmates, but...well, if platonic soulmates were a thing, it was definitely  _ their  _ thing.

“You really are fine,” she said, sounding as relieved as Dean felt. “Right away I knew something wasn’t right…I’m a lesbian, Dean, I’ve  _ always  _ been a lesbian.” Heck, even  _ that  _ wasn’t a surprise. They hadn’t had sex. Charlie hadn’t seemed interested, and lack of interest was one of the surest ways to kill Dean’s libido. There was nothing hot about sleeping with someone who didn’t want to sleep with him. “I knew something was wrong when we got paired, so I did some research, and I met…” She pulled out her phone, scrolled through a few screens, and held it out to him. A picture of a cute blond filled the screen, beautiful face spread in a serene smile as she posed holding out a knife like she meant to use it. “Her name is Jo. She has the same time tattooed on her arm as we do. She was at the club, too. I think she musta been standing near you - like, we all saw each other at the same time. We’ve met up a few times since then – I should have told you, I’m so sorry – and it’s her. I’m sure it’s her. We felt all the signs, the butterflies, the electricity, the chemistry, she’s…she’s perfect.”

_...or maybe it’s  _ not  _ platonic soulmates. Because that doesn’t exist. Maybe there was a  _ fourth  _ person with the same time at the club? Or am I just screwed? _

“That’s…awesome.” He...didn’t sound so much like he meant it any longer. Charlie was great and deserved to find someone, but didn’t Dean deserve to find someone, too?

_ Of course not. _

_ I should have known this whole soulmate shit was too good to be true. _

“I’m so so so so sorry.”

_ When I really think about mom and dad’s relationship…it wasn’t perfect either. And I’m a fuck up, always have been, always will be…I only bought this whole soulmate bull because I knew, deep down, that no one who wasn’t destined to be with me would waste their time on something long term otherwise. _

“Stop apologizing, Charlie. I’m happy for you. You’re one awesome chica, too, and with the way she…Jo?...with the way Jo is holding that knife, she’ll fit right in at your LARP.”

_ And sure enough…I’m alone again. _

_ Alone again, naturally. _

_ Fuck, I’ve always hated that damn song. _

“Won’t she though?” gushed Charlie, turning the phone back toward herself and smiling contentedly at the image of her soulmate. “I’m glad to hear you say that, ‘cause I was thinking – she wants to make a druid and I think she’d tie into your backstory, like, perfectly, but—” 

“Woah…” Dean interrupted.  _ Unless I’m not alone again?  _ Charlie snapped her mouth shut, expression falling. “Wait…you still want me to go to LARP?”

There was a beat pause.

“Uh…duh?” she replied. Realization dawned on her face, though damned if Dean had a clue what she’d realized. “Unless you don’t want! If you don’t want anything more to do with me now that I’ve dumped you, that’s reasonable. I didn’t even think – hell, I’m sorry, I’m making assumptions, and—”

“Stop. Apologizing,” Dean barked. Charlie flinched, hunched her shoulders sheepishly, and gave him a troubled smile. “Charlie. You’re really damn cool. And LARP is a blast. If you still want to be friends, we can be friends.”

“Oh phew. Anyway, I was saying, Jo wants to play a druid, and…”

Dean let her ramble on, nodding agreement that it would mesh well with the character he’d made a few months back, reflecting on his failed attempt at “forever” with Charlie.

Charlie still wanted to be friends.

Charlie still wanted Dean in her life.

Charlie was the best friend he’d ever had, hands down, except maybe Sam. And brothers didn’t  _ really  _ count, did they?

Maybe, in a strange way, he  _ had  _ found his soulmate. 

But not in the way he’d wanted.

_ It’s not...it’s not  _ entirely  _ hopeless, right? Charlie found her actual soulmate. Maybe mine was standing back and to the left from her. _

_ Yeah, just about to shoot JFK from the grassy knoll. _

With a sigh, Dean accepted that he was a chump. A doomed, lonely chump. What were the  _ actual  _ odds there was a fourth person at Heaven with the exact same time and date?

May 18th, 2018, 2100.

Total fucking bullshit.

“…and Dean?” she said, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. “Thanks for being so chill about this. I didn’t think you’d flip out but…I know how much you want this. Wanted  _ someone _ . And I want it for you, I truly do. But I could never be the soulmate you wanted.”

_ That, at least is true. _

_ And I am happy for what we’ve got. Truly. _

_ But... _

“It’s okay, Charlie. We’re okay. I’m okay.”

Dean wasn’t okay.

_ But I’ll be okay.  _

_ I’m always okay. _

* * *

“You’re back.”

Surprised, Dean turned toward the bar. The dude with the perfectly, purposefully sloppy hair was back. Heck, he didn’t look like he’d fricken moved since the last time Dean had been at Heaven, like the damn stool was molded to the shape of his rather attractive ass, but that was impossible. 

“So’re you,” Dean countered.

“Great come back,” the man deadpanned. “I’m here every Friday. What’s your excuse? You’ve been gone since you found your match, yet here you are flying solo. Four months of domestic bliss and you’re ready to play the field again?”

“She wasn’t my soulmate. And did you just compare me to a Jason Derulo song?”

“Wow, hell of a mistake to make.”

“Listening to Jason Derulo is  _ always  _ a mistake.”

The man stared him down.

“The tattoos matched,” Dean grumbled. “Except…they didn’t. Apparently I don't have a soulmate. Unless I'm supposed to have a threesome with the two lesbians now traipsing off into the sunset together.”

“I don't think that word, 'lesbians,' means what you think it means.”

“It was a joke!” Dean exclaimed.

“It wasn't funny.”

Spluttering, Dean tried fished for a reply, but none came, and he broke into a helpless laugh.

The man smiled and patted the open bar stool beside him. Shaking his head, chuckles still shaking his shoulders, Dean took the seat.

“Thanks, asshole,” he said. “I needed that.”

“You're welcome,” the man said, oh-so-seriously.

“You’re weird.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t pretend I’m the first person to tell ya that – hanging out at the same bar, in the same stool, next to the soulmate wrist bands  _ every  _ Friday night? That’s weird.”

“In a world where everyone behaved as I do, you’d be the weird one,” countered the man.

“Pity your weird ass lives in this world, then,” said Dean. “I’m Dean,” he added, offering a hand. The man looked at the hand like he’d never seen one before, didn’t shake it, met Dean’s eyes, and stared unblinking until Dean sheepishly dropped his hand and grimaced his confusion. “Anyone ever tell you that staring thing you do is creepy as fuck?”

“Many times. I’m Castiel,” said the man. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Is it?” Castiel looked…startled?

What the fuck was up with this guy?

“Fuck if I know.” Dean threw his hands up. Fortunately, the bartender came by before Dean had to think of another clever counter. “Give me whatever he’s having.” Now the bartender looked startled, but nodded and left.

Why the fuck had Dean thought coming back to the bar would solve anything?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sympathy sat unnaturally in Castiel’s voice.

“Not really,” Dean admitted. He was bitter, and lonely, and had failed to find anyone else with May 18 th , 2018, 2100 on their arm listed on the “missed connection” soulmate websites, and—

“Good, because I don’t want to hear about it,” said Castiel blithely.

“You are…you are  _ really _ fucking weird.” Dean shook his head. 

“And yet you’re still sitting there, talking with me.”

“You talked to me first!”

“You sat down.”

“You offered!”

“You bought the same drink as me.”

“I figured someone here this often would know what’s good. You—” 

“Your Thug Passion,” the bartender interrupted, setting down a flute of blue, bubbling liquid.

Dean blinked at it.

The bartender left.

“What the fuck am I drinking?” he asked.

“A Thug Passion,” replied Castiel, all serenity as he sipped his own. “Still think I’m the weird one?”

“ _ I got the same drink as you _ !”

“I fail to see your point.”

Speechless, Dean lifted the drink and sampled it with his tongue. The tang of Champagne explained the bubbles, and whatever was blue tasted of fruit, tart and sweet.

“Well?” asked Castiel.

Dean took another sip.

“It’s…uh…it’s good,” Dean admitted.

Castiel broke into a wide, toothy grin. “I like you, Dean.”

“I don’t like you,” grumbled Dean. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“I’d like to be.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“I’ve been trying very hard,” Castiel said solemnly. “Is it working?”

Dean wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, but…but he didn’t really mind. He was even...kinda...having fun. “Yeah,” he admitted, swirling a mouthful of Thug Passion around his mouth. It was damn tasty.

“Excellent.”

“So…you wanna go back to my place?” Dean asked.

“Why would I want that?”

“Or we could go to yours, I guess,” Dean shrugged. Castiel stared at him blankly. “I thought you wanted to be a pain in my ass.”

“Indeed, I do,” said Castiel. “I’ve found most people go away if I’m obnoxious. You haven’t yet, which is intriguing. What do I have to say to make you leave? That’s the mystery I’m currently endeavoring to solve.”

“What? You. Invited. Me. To. Sit. Here.”

“Yes, but…”

And off they went again.

By the end of the evening, Dean was thoroughly bewildered. Castiel was purposefully abrasive, literal to a fault - except when he wasn’t. He was evidently taking things literally solely to fuck with Dean, and somehow Dean found that adorable and endearing.

Dean had no idea what was going on, with either Castiel or himself.

But Castiel’s offer to be a pain in Dean’s ass had been  _ extremely  _ tempting.

So he stayed, drinking every cockamamie drink Castiel could think of, running up a hell of a tab, until the place shut down.

“It was highly unpleasant talking to you,” Castiel said flatly as they walked out of the bar side by side.

“Back atcha,” Dean replied.

Castiel looked on the verge of saying something else, but instead he turned and walked away.

_ Seriously he is so. damn. weird. _

_ But he’s right. I stayed. _

_ So I guess he’s my kind of weird. _

_ Didn’t find my soulmate but… _

_ …but I got nothin’. Time to get my depressingly unfucked, pain-free ass to bed. _

* * *

 

“You’re back.”

The following Friday, Dean returned to Heaven.

“So’re you.”

He wanted to see Castiel again.

“I’m always here Friday nights.”

Dude once again looked exactly as he had their two prior encounters.

“I know. That’s why I came back.”

Really stupidly hot.

“You’re…really weird.”

Dean shrugged.

“Yes, I am.”

Castiel patted on the stool beside him.

“So am I.”

Dean sat down.

“Ah ha! So you admit it!”

Light gleamed red off Castiel’s dark eyes, picked out the highlights of his face, haloed his hair.

“I admit nothing.”

Son of a bitch was a bald-faced liar.

“I heard you!”

_ Why am I doing this again? _

“You have no proof.”

_ …because I wanted to? _

“You’re weird.”

_ …because I thought about him all week? _

“ _ You’re  _ weird.”

_ …but shouldn’t I be looking for my soulmate? _

“We can both be weird. Shocking, I know.”

_ What soulmate? _

“What’ll you have?”

Dean smiled at the bartender.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

Castiel smirked.

Dean smirked back.

This was going to be fun.

This week Cas had ordered something called a “Prarie Oyster” that had something red and spicy swirled in and a raw fucking egg floating in it.

Son of a bitch was trying to give Dean fucking salmonella.

Dean drank the whole fucking thing, managed not to gag, and smirked.

Cas  _ also _ drank his whole fucking thing. And somehow managed to look like he enjoyed it. He even ordered another.

Challenge. Fricken. Accepted.

Dean had three.

They shut the bar down again, going back and forth, trading jibes and insults and deliberate misunderstandings. 

“It was highly unpleasant talking to you,” Castiel said. He sounded exactly the same as the previous week, looked the same, heck, Dean thought he might be standing in the same spot.

“Back atcha,” Dean replied.

Dean couldn't wait ‘til next week.

The only thing he’d ever anticipated so eagerly before was meeting his soulmate. 

* * *

“You're back.”

“Pfft, don't act so surprised.”

“You're supposed to say, ‘back atcha.’”

“No, I'm supposed to say ‘so’re you.’”

“Ah, so you do remember!” Cas beamed. God, he was handsome.

“What swill’re we drinking this week?”

“Place your order and find out.”

Dean grumbled but did as directed when the bartender came by. 

“Ya know, one of these weeks I'm gonna get here before you and you'll have to ask for what I'm drinking instead.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Besides, you will never arrive here before me.”

“I won't?”

“You won't.”

Dean would take a day off, arrive when the fucking place opened, and stay all day if he had too.

And he'd order something awesome and delicious. Because he wasn't a douche bag like Cas.

He'd order something awesome and delicious and ludicrously expensive.

Because, okay, he was a little bit of a douche bag.

They shut the bar down again, the bartender glaring at them as she scrubbed the bar top around them.

“It was highly unpleasant talking to you.”

“Back atcha.”

* * *

 

“You're back.”

Dean's jaw dropped.

The bar opened at 11:00 AM on Friday's.

It was 11:03.

The doors had just been unlocked.

All three people who'd been waiting outside had been standing with him.

They’d chatted to pass the time.

None of those people were Cas.

Yet there the bastard was, sitting in the same fucking barstool, hair mussed exactly the same, and  _ definitely  _ wearing the same fricken outfit.

“How. The. Fuck.”

Castiel grinned. “I own the bar, Dean.”

“You...you own the bar.” Dean spun on a heel and exclaimed to the empty air behind him, “He owns the fucking bar!”

“I own Heaven. I’m God, here. The health department would shut us down if we routinely served a drink containing a raw egg to customers. Fortunately, I factored in that you were an idiot when I developed the plan, so knew you wouldn’t report our violation.”

“You…‘factored in’...that I’m…”

“That you’re an idiot, yes.” Cas nodded. 

“You aren’t a weirdo; you’re a fucking asshole.”

“And yet here you are.”

There Dean was.

Shaking his head in disbelief - at Castiel’s behavior and his own - Dean took his seat.

“What swill we drinking this week, boss?”

“You don’t work here, Dean.”

“Might as well,” he grumbled.

“Absolutely not.”

“Right, of course, wouldn’t want an  _ idiot _ like me working in your high class establishment, right?”

“Nonsense. Idiots are perfect bar employees. Muscles like yours? You’d make an excellent bouncer - or I could hire you to be the naked man that bachelorettes drink shots off of during private parties. You’d like it. They tip well. However, I refuse to hire you. We have a strict ‘no fraternization’ policy here.”

“Oh.”

“That means,” Castiel said slowly and loudly, “that employees are forbidden from being in relationships together outside of work.”

“I know what it  _ means _ , dipshit!”

_ Wait a hot goddamn second, does that mean... _

“My apologies, you seemed confused. Only trying to help.”

... _ does that mean… _

“Only trying to help,” Dean mimicked in a high pitched voice.

_...DOES THAT MEAN _ …

“Did you know that when you make that face, I find myself strangely drawn to kiss you?”

“Fuck!” 

Dean slammed their mouths together. Cas’ lips were hot, chapped, and tasted of something minty and alcoholic. The kiss was instantly reciprocated, Cas’ tongue lapping at Dean’s lips, Cas’ nose bumping against his, Cas’ stubble burning his cheek. It felt so damn  _ good _ . Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed anyone, didn’t think he’d  _ ever  _ shared a kiss this good, not that he spared his memory much attention while Cas’ mouth was firm against his own.

And then it was over.

“As I was saying,” said Cas, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “I couldn’t possibly hire you, not with an attitude like yours.”

“Wouldn’t want an asshole for a boss anyway.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

* * *

 

“It was highly unpleasant talking to you.”

“Back atcha.”

And they turned and walked in opposite directions.

* * *

 

“You’re back.”

“So’re you.”

“I own the place.”

“So do I.”

“Liar.”

Dean really, really liked Castiel.

“But I do it so, so well,” he grinned, dropping into his usual stool.

Castiel seemed to really, really like Dean in return.

“I literally caught you in two seconds flat.”

And whereas that kinda seemed like a good thing…

“Or did you?”

...it only served to worry Dean.

“...I definitely did.”

He’d never seen Castiel’s tattoo.

“You’re an idiot.”

Dean hadn’t found any sign of his soulmate. He’d stopped looking a months ago, a couple weeks after meeting Cas. Because he  _ liked  _ Cas, and he was increasingly sure that Charlie and Jo were his bizarre long lost sister platonic soulmate something-or-others. They were awesome. And Cas was awesome. But if Castiel’s date was in the future...if he was still on the look out for his ‘someone’…

“ _ You’re  _ an idiot.”

...Dean couldn’t face losing  _ another  _ person, not after Charlie walked out to pursue the relationship she deserved. Call him a romantic moron but he wanted more than a fling.

“Great come back, as always. The very wit I’ve come to expect from you. I stand corrected.”

The lighting in the bar was garbage for making out details, and Cas always wore long sleeves - always wore the same outfit, as surely as the bartender wore her uniform when she brought Dean a drink without asking. It was neon pink, glowing thanks to two ice cubes alight within, and smelled like pepto-bismol.

Dean took a tentative sip.

It was pepto-bismol.

“Dude, the fuck? Tryin' to get me to OD?”

By the dim bank lighting over the bar and the flashes of more intense beams from the dance floor, Dean covertly tried to catch a glimpse of Cas’ wrist while giving as good as he got in repartee. 

“I'm not forcing you to drink it,” Cas pointed out, taking a small sip of his own pepto-bismol. 

No dice. Dean couldn’t see jack shit.

“Are  _ you  _ trying to OD?”

Didn’t stop him from trying.

“Just ask me,” said Cas.

“Holy non-sequitor, batman, but...sure, I'll pop the question.” Dean grinned and dropped down to one knee beside their usual bar stools. “Bossman Cas, will you marry me?”

“I’m being serious, Dean.”

“Since never,” Dean scoffed.

“If you want to know about my tattoo, ask me.”

“What? I would never! None a my damn business anyway.”

“You sound like my affronted prom date. Just ask me.”

“You affronted your prom date? And you're not serving a life sentence? What, you out on parole? Violating your probation in this fine establishment?”

Dean was babbling. He knew he was babbling. Judging by Cas’ flat stare and quirked eyebrow, he also knew Dean was babbling. 

“Dean. You're being a pain in the ass.”

Dean had no idea why he was being a pain in the ass.

“You know you love it.”

Maybe he was embarrassed he'd gotten caught trying to be sneaky. Maybe he was so used to playing difficult with Cas that he did it habitually. Maybe he recognized how ridiculous it was to care about Cas’ tattoo in the first place, as if Cas actually gave a damn about him.

“I do, yes.”

Maybe Dean was terrified to know what date was tattooed on Castiel's arm.

_ What will it mean if the dates don't match? Which they won't. Yes, we met on May 18th, 2018, but it was 2040, not 2100. No match, no soulmate. What will happen if…? _

_ Wait, WHAT did he say? _

Cas stared at him. Holy hell were his eyes  _ blue _ . In the lighting of the bar Dean had never noticed before. Now he suspected he'd be haunted by that shade forever, like the sky on a brisk fall day.

“What?” he asked, stunned.

_ Way to go. Much intelligent. So word.  _

Castiel continued to stare at him.

_ Now I'm memeing in my head instead of simply… _

_...simply processing that Cas sure as fuck sounded like he just said he loves me… _

_...and instead of simply asking… _

“Yo, Cas, what's the story with your tattoo?”

_ No more games. No more lying to myself. I have to know. _

Not breaking eye contact, Cas rolled up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal his wrist. Dean's gaze flicked between Cas’ intense eyes and the exposed skin. With each turn of the cuff more was revealed of a black rectangle covering Cas’ wrist and lower arm. Whatever date was written on his skin was completely obscured.

“Oh, so you're still fucking with me,” Dean sighed. He shouldn't be surprised but it still stung that he'd believed Cas was being serious, had swallowed his pride and asked, only to be answered with yet another non-answer.

Castiel blinked, and his expression changed to one Dean had never seen grace his face before. His eyes widened, his lips downturned, and he looked... _ hurt _ .

“I wasn't--”

“Forget I asked,” Dean interrupted gruffly. What fucking right did  _ Cas _ have to be hurt after pulling such a stunt? “None of my fucking business anyway. I'm just the schmuck you like to screw around with on Friday night.”

“Dean, wait!” Cas caught his wrist as he started to rise.

“What, so I can hear your sob story about lost love?” sneered Dean.

“You're an asshole, and an idiot!” The insults sounded unnatural in Cas plaintive tone, and that more than anything arrested Dean atop his stool. 

“So’re you! Heck, I only act like a sassy bitch cause  _ you  _ started it in some bullshit attempt to drive me away. Should let you, instead of--”

“I get the tattoo thing is a sore spot for you but hear me out!”

Anger bubbled through him, but Dean let it go with a heaved sigh. “I'm listening. What was your date, then?”

“I don't know.”

Dean blinked.

“I got the black tattoo before my date showed.” Cas sounded so damn  _ earnest _ . “It still may not have manifested, for all I know.”

“Oh.” Dean had no idea what was going on. Par for the course when he was chatting with Castiel. He waited for Cas to continue. Silence stretched out between them, a sphere of quiet in the hubbub of the club. 

Why didn’t he speak?

Maybe...maybe Cas was waiting for  _ him _ ?

“Why?”

“Because soulmates don't matter! Surely after what happened to you, you understand that!”

“Do I?”

_ I wanted to meet them and be with them, was disappointed when it didn't happen, searched for them, kept coming back here… _

“I wanted the chance to decide for myself who I would spend my life with.”

_...and ceased to care about the unknown someone who didn't want me the more clear it became that Cas was real and solid and cared about me. _

“Not because it was meant to be. Not because it was love at first sight. Not because the fates said ‘poof, you're a couple!’”

_ Not a hypothetical soulmate dictated by a bullshit tattoo, but an actual… _

“But someone who knew me and saw me and listened to me and, understanding what they were getting into, eyes wide open, still wanted to be with me.”

_...an actual what, exactly? What is Cas to me, and what am I to Cas? _

“You’re not an idiot, Dean. You must know I think you’re brilliant, and funny. If either of us is an idiot, it’s me, because for a couple weeks now...I thought that ‘someone’ might be you.”

Dean's eyes flicked from his own wrist...May 18th, 2018, 2100...to Castiel's blacked-out forearm, but all he saw was blue - Cas’ beautiful eyes, brimming with tears, so hopeful in the dimness.

“This spiel work well for you in the past?” Dean donned faux disgruntledness like armor and settled into his stool once more.

Castiel broke into a stunning, toothy grin. “I only need it to work once.”

“Drink your damn pepto-bismol, Cas.”

“I will, thank you. I shouldn't have had tacos for lunch.”

“Ew, dude. TMI.”

“Who is this ‘Timmy’ and why should they care about my flatulence?”

“Cas!” Dean threw up his hands in despair. He should never have started sparring again. He never ever  _ ever _ won. 

“You know you love it.” Despite the confident words, Cas sounded timid, hopeful, and he gazed up at Dean through long dark lashes in gorgeous imitation of a Disney princess.

_ Since when do Disney princesses have permanent bedhead, a careful maintained five o’clock shadow, and eyes that shine like stars? _

_ Fuck, that was...like...literally a line from a song in Mulan… _

_...double fuck, I know the songs from Mulan well enough to know that. _

“Yeah, I do,” Dean said with warmth and resignation.

_ I’m screwed. _

Cas beamed.

Dean would do anything to keep that smile on Cas’ face.

_ I am so, so, so, so screwed. _

_ And I'm so glad about it I could burst.  _

_ But I'd better play it cool.  _

“Doesn't change that you're an asshole,” Dean added flippantly.

“I can accept that.”

Cas was always beautiful, but when he was happy?

He was all Dean wanted, ever, forever.

* * *

 

“It’s been very unpleasant talking to you,” said Cas solemnly, locking the door to the bar. Even the bartender and kitchen staff had left before them.

“Back atcha.”

Neither turned.

Neither walked away.

They stood, frozen, staring at each other, in tableau. A warm breeze tousled Cas’ hair and tugged at Dean's jacket.

_ Should I say something? Invite him over? We spent the evening pretending we didn't have a heart to heart, didn't share love declarations like a couple of soulmates who'd just united. But now… _

“Well, be seeing you,” Dean said awkwardly.

Castiel didn't reply.

Dean turned and walked toward his car.

Castiel followed him.

Castiel got in the passenger seat.

Castiel got out after they'd driven and parked.

Castiel followed Dean to his building, to his apartment, to his bedroom.

Neither of them said a word.

Nothing in Dean's life had ever felt so right. 

Fuck their tattoos.

Dean had found his soulmate.

* * *

 

The next morning, they got breakfast at a diner. They rearranged some furniture in the platonic sense. They rearranged some furniture in the biblical sense. They talked - actually talked, instead of fucking around and deliberately misunderstanding each other. At noon, Cas left for work, and Dean turned to Google to find him the best tattoo parlor in the area.

Being greeted by Jo was a surprise. 

Charlie was there, too.

What even was Dean's life?

Fuck it, he couldn’t pretend he was unhappy with how things had gone.

“What can I get ya, big guy?” Jo asked, gesturing at the display of tattoo flash art. A prominent image of what Dean could only call a wench leered at him from the wall of stock tattoo ideas. Dean turned to Charlie, who also leered at him and waved with a colored pencil.

“That's one of mine,” she bragged.

Dean hadn't even fricken known she drew. How had he convinced himself she was his soulmate? Why had Dean believed the date on his arm meant jack shit?

“Interested?” asked Jo. 

He turned back to her.

She was leering too.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not even slightly,” he said. Raising his arm, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal his tattoo. “It's simple. I want a black rectangle right here.” He used the thumb and forefinger of his opposite hand to indicate two sides of the shape.

“But that will cover your date.”

“It  _ will _ ?” Dean gasped in mock horror. “Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious. You’ve saved Metropolis.”

“Dean, don't do anything hasty,” cautioned Charlie, coming up beside him. “I know things didn't work out before but that doesn't mean you should give up!”

“I didn't give up.”

“She's right,” Jo chimed in. “You're a great guy! You'll find your real soul mate eventua...wait, what?”

“I  _ didn't give up _ !”

“You found her?” Charlie sounded delighted on his behalf, but her expression betrayed confusion. “Then why cover your tattoo?”

“I found him, yeah, but my tattoo had fuck all to do with it.”

“You're  _ bi _ ? How did I not know that?”

“Pan, actually,” corrected Dean. “Apparently there was loads we didn't know about each other. Like, I didn't know you did art, or that Jo’s a tattoo artist. I'm only here cause this place got great reviews on Yelp.”

“See? Told you that brought in business,” Jo said smugly. Charlie conceded the point with a tender smile and a half shrug.

“Anyway - black rectangle? Can you do that? How much will it be?”

“Fuck that, I can cover it up with something way more interesting than a rectangle.” Jo tilted her head this way and that, peering at the curve of his arm. “Provided you got the budget for something bigger. You cool with that?”

“What kinda budget we talking?”

“I dunno...few hundred bucks?”

Dean glanced at his arm, glanced back at her, and nodded. He made good money and had saved a lot. He could afford the indulgence.

“Fine. Let's do this. Where do I sit?”

“Uh...don’t you wanna talk it over first?” asked Jo. “Know what I’m thinking?”

“I trust you. Surprise me.”

The women exchanged a glance and Charlie shrugged. “Cool beans, gimme like two hours to draw something up.”

“I'm free ‘til like six,” Jo added, “so I can get started on ya as soon as Charlie’s got the art done.”

“Awesome. Text me when you're ready.”

* * *

 

“You're back.” For once, Cas sounded genuinely surprised. 

In his defense, it was Saturday. For months, they’d only seen each other on Fridays, but Dean couldn’t wait to show Cas the tattoo. He’d only just found out what it was, after Jo finished the inking. To maintain the surprise, Jo and Charlie had blindfolded him until the end.

“Whatever, asshole. I've got something to show you.”

It would have been a long and boring few hours but fortunately their characters had LARP shit to talk out, which passed the time excellently. Not that he’d ever admit to being the kinda jackass that scened outside of game time.

But he and Jo had backstory stuff to hammer out.

“No, you're supposed to say--”

Dean interrupted by pulling his jacket off, revealing his left arm covered in crinkly plastic wrap. Theoretically he was supposed to keep it covered longer but fuck that, he loved his ink too much to keep it a secret from Cas. He could always cover it again after Cas had seen.

“What’d you do?” stammered Cas, staring.

“Spent like four hundred bucks,” Dean replied with a grin. He undid the tape and carefully peeled back the protective layer to reveal the tattoo beneath, glistening with medical ointment.

“What is…”

Moving his arm to catch the light, Dean showed off the tracery that started at his shoulder as thin lines and stippling, growing darker and more solid the closer it came to his wrist. The merest suggestion of flight and airiness enfolded his triceps; his biceps were enfolded in thick black feathers, rendered so minutely that Dean could almost imagine himself taking flight, if only he had a matching wing on his right side.

His tattoo was obliterated amidst the pinions.

Castiel stared.

Dean grinned.

Castiel stared.

Dean began to grow nervous.

Castiel stared.

“Uh, well, if you don't like it, I--”

Castiel  _ stared _ .

“Shut up, Dean. Where do I get one?”

“Huh?”

“Where. Do. I. Get. A. Matching. Tattoo.”

“All Pro Ink. Turns out Jo and Charlie - ya know, my not-soulmates - work there.” The intensity of Castiel’s stare was gorgeous and disconcerting. Sheepish, Dean looked away, awkwardly trying to re-wrap his arm.

“Can they do another the same?” Castiel grabbed the wrap and helped replace it.

“I guess? You...uh...you want one?”

“Can we go right now?”

“Um...sure? But  _ why _ ?”

Castiel grinned, fierce and possessive and terrifying and abso-fraggin’-lutely perfect as he bared his canines. “Because you're my soulmate.”

“And that means matching tattoos,” mumbled Dean. Pleasure accompanied understanding. Castiel grabbed him, kissed him like a claim of ownership, broke away, and nodded.

“Exactly. You ready?”

“Now?”

“Obviously.”

“But the bar is still open!”

“What're they gonna do, fire me?”

Dean had no counter for that. Dodging through the crowd, he led the way out and toward his car until Cas grabbed his wrist.

“Wait.”

Castiel held something inexplicably glowing, tugged at Deans arm, and slid it over his hand.

A glowing soulmate bracelet.

Castiel donned his own.

“Now we're ready,” he said. “Let's go.”

Stunned speechless, Dean nodded and unlocked his car.

Fuck fate-matched tattoos. Having a soulmate was every inch the whirlwind Dean had anticipated and he wouldn’t trade having Cas for the world…

...wouldn't trade Cas for whoever his supposed “real” soulmate was…

They were a pair as sure as any preordained nonsense could have decreed.

And soon they'd have the tattoos to prove it.

“I love you, Castiel,” Dean announced with bald-faced acceptance as he pulled the car door shut.

“Good. Now drive. I  _ need _ that tattoo...Dean, we need our wings.”

Nodding, Dean put the car in gear and headed out.

_ I don't need my right arm to have a wing tattoo for me to fly. _

_ Castiel will be my second wing. _

_ And together we'll soar. _

**Author's Note:**

> Uh...I hope the insults come off playful? I meant them that way, but now I'm not so sure. Oh well. <3
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoyed.
> 
> Follow me on [unforth-ninawaters](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com), if ya want.


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